Page 38 of Branded By the Cowboy

I know how to weather the storm. I’ve done it most of my life.

But this one? It’s different. Because it’s not just the windows I’m watching.

It’s Angus.

I catch him staring outside at the darkening sky, shoulders rigid under his flannel shirt.

"Think we'll lose power?" I ask, my voice too light.

"Probably." His gaze darts to the window, then back to me. "You've done a good job preparing."

Words that should be praise but sound like goodbye.

It’s been two weeks since I married Angus in a living room draped in fairy lights and blossoming with hope. Two weeks since I saw something raw and steady in his eyes that made me believe this could be real.

And for one beautiful night, it was.

I touch my lips absentmindedly, recalling the weight of his calloused hands on my waist, the clean, soapy scent of his skin, and how he whispered my name against my neck like a prayer.

The heat between us sparked fast and burned bright. His touch, his kiss, the way he pulled me in like I was oxygen and he’d been suffocating—it was all-consuming.

And then he woke up shouting a man’s name I didn't recognize, eyes fixed on horrors I couldn't see. His body trembled under my touch when I tried to reach for him. He wouldn't tell me about his nightmare. He muttered an apology, got up, and left me alone in sheets still warm from our bodies.

And since then, he’s been distant.

Kind. Polite. Present.

But not close.

Not the way we were when he kissed me in the barn, or the night the mare gave birth. Not like our wedding night, when I trembled as I gave him the only thing that was ever truly mine to give, and he touched me with such reverence I thought I might break from the tenderness of it. I gave him my body, my trust, everything, and for those few perfect hours, I believed he was giving me the same in return.

He thinks pushing me away will protect me. But I didn’t marry him for the easy parts.

And I know it’s not about me. I do. Some bone-deep part of me understands that whatever’s chasing Angus in the dark isn’t mine to fix.

Still, my chest aches with the silence. I catch myself wondering if I asked for too much. If I was foolish to think a girl like me could hold the attention of a man like him for more than a moment.

Because I know how this story goes.

You get warm. You let yourself believe.

And then life snatches it all back.

"Storm's getting worse," he says now, grabbing his coat from the hook. "I need to check the horses."

Outside, the wind screams through the trees like it’s got a grudge. The power flickers again. Ben, Henry, and Tom went out hours ago to secure the outbuildings and double-check the fencing. Ben barked orders. Tom made jokes. Henry gave Shay a long kiss and told her not to lift anything heavier than the baby growing inside her.

“I can help,” I offer, already reaching for my jacket.

He shakes his head. "Stay inside where it's warm. I’ll be back.”

“I can cope in a storm, Angus,” I say, the words carrying more weight than just the weather.

Something flickers in his eyes—recognition, maybe even longing—before he shutters it away. “Not like this one.”

The door closes behind him with a finality that makes my chest ache. I wrap my arms around myself, watching from the kitchen window as he strides through the sheeting rain toward the barn, broad shoulders hunched against the wind. He could have waited until morning. We both know the horses are secure. But he'd rather face the elements than whatever's growing between us.

He thinks pushing me away will protect me. But I didn't marry him for the easy parts.

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